upon the altar
by hiyoris-scarf
Summary: this is just a place to dump all my noradrabbles. angst, fluff, and crack abound. newest - 27: "worry" (parental!yatone)
1. only

**[ will continue to be updated with...whatever comes next ]**

* * *

 **Daifuku Week 2016 - for the prompt "beginnings"**

* * *

Once, there was a ghost.

No, not a ghost. He knows he isn't a ghost, but he isn't sure what he is, either. A name, perhaps. He is a name—or he had one—but as he drifts between the gray eternities of become and un-become, he realizes that a name would be foolish. A ghost he is, and ghosts, as long as they exist, have no use for names.

Once, there was a vagrant.

No, not a vagrant. She knows she is as much god as the rest of them, but they still kick her to the dark gutters outside heaven. Their teeth chew up and spit out the curse that curls up in her shadow. "Binbōgami," they hiss, "you must never touch us." So the vagrant, flicked off like a beetle from a forehead, lands among the ghosts she can never touch.

Once, there was a weapon.

He becomes weapon the moment he hears the divine syllables "Kokki," and precious, frightening warmth presses its lips to his cold unbeing. He knows he is a weapon, because when he re-forms as Daikoku, there is a vast, crudely-carved chunk of the world missing. He looks at the cracks in the huge crater—still seeping corrupt gases—and he smiles.

Once, there was a master.

She becomes master the moment his memories take shape inside the chaos of her own mind. The memories of his truncated life play out before her eyes in the time it takes to snap open a fan. It hurts. It hurts her more than anything, and as familiar as she is with her own curse, she realizes that the curse of happiness cut short might be worse.

Once, there was a servant.

Hell would serve itself a banquet if he becomes her hafuri, so he learns to limit his service as Kokki. But as Daikoku, he serves her eternally and absolutely; his wild, lovely goddess will never feel abandonment as long as he bears her gift. It is this promise that delivers him through the agony of losing Daigo. It is this promise that pushes him to his knees before the Yatogami—so he can keep serving her without hating every inch of himself.

He serves her because she has only him.

Once, there was a lover.

Even though it's not because of her that he died, even though she makes him swear to raise her if she reincarnates, she worries that she can't be enough. She is the imposter, the luckless—so how much can she love, really? He tucks her close, tickling her forehead with his scruff, his breath, and calls her silly—his silly, bewitching, perfect lady. In short low words, he tells her that in his eyes, she is the everything and the all.

She loves him because he has only her.


	2. from Iwami

**Ebisu Week 2016 - for the prompts "reincarnation" and "relationships"**

* * *

 _Little god, look._ A loop here, a tug there. It's a simple knot: easy for small fingers. The things you leave behind are always simple.

 _Little god, move._ Don't cling to me; take your own steps. I am only a pointing finger, a guiding star. With you moves the whole ocean, so join the waves in their eternal "toward." You are the sail; I, the anchor.

 _Little god, wait._ You are still so small and new, and I can quickly lose you in the crowd. Humans will not help you; they won't bother themselves for you like they will for one of their own. Wait for me, let me find you.

 _Little god, forget._ Your dreams are nothing, they are only shadow and clamor without substance. You've been imagining too much, so forget everything but the fish twirling their fins in the sun. Pain belongs only to the night. See, your skin is clean?

 _Little god, lead._ Your footprints are deep, even though they fill with water. You have somehow found the same path every time, and I will trust you, I will follow you. I must.

 _Little god, remember._ Your dreams are everything. Leave behind this world of shadow and clamor, and just sleep. Remember the fish that dance in the green harbor at night? Pain belongs only to the day. See, your soul is clean.

 _Little god, help._ Humans are fragile in ways that you are not, but you have shattered and mended yourself for them more times than I can count. Help me understand why you break.

 _Little god, stay._ You become, and re-become, and again once more, and my old heart is webbed through with cracks. You bound too quickly over the waves, my little god. I promise…I will try to keep up with you this time.

 _Little god, listen._ The things you left behind are simple, they are the small knots that slip away upon the greater cord. Listen: the loop is here, the tug there. Let me teach you again.


	3. she of the bowstring

**about Hiyori's grandmother**

 **inspired by an artwork that I've desperately tried to include the url to but *shrieks to the heavens***

 **this website...smh...** **if you go to this story on my ao3 profile, the link to the art is there.**

* * *

Her fingers have known a weapon's shape since her earliest memory. The gentle roundness of a child's toy never fit her hand so well as the long, curved smoothness—as precise as rhythm—as flowing as water.

"See?" Plucking the bowstring, her mother bends down to listen with her. The hum of the string as it settles quivers in her teeth and spine.

Her mother places an arrow in her small hand, and adjusts her child's posture into an adult silhouette. The arrow flies—and with it, that single, chilling note.

"That's what kills the beasts for you. Not the sharpened point."

[ ]

It has been theirs for generations: the ability to see the ragged outlines of those _other_ existences—creatures that should not take shape except in shadow, and whisper, and suggestion of movement at the edge of sight.

[ ]

When victory sings at the ends of her fingernails, after she has nearly emptied her ebira into the thick-blooded throat of a ravaging demon, she sings with it. _Match its note_ , her mother's voice tells her, above the roar and rain and stench.

The bowsong rises in her—she is not fighting but chanting—ceremonially serene.

 _And nock, and loose._

[ ]

But there are monsters, and then there are _monsters_. There are gods, and then there are—

[ ]

On the shrine grounds, she doesn't press her hands together, but curls them around the wood, and bamboo, and slick lacquer. Her fingers are afire.

She brings out a coin, testing its weight for a few seconds; she lifts it to her cold mouth. The rain is coming down again, its freezing drops battering her forehead like a hail of bullets.

 _I hope you're listening, you calamity gods,_ she sends into the darkness. _Because this is the only prayer you'll ever get from me. The day one of you touches what is mine—that is the day I'll be coming for you._

The coin falls from her fingers, into the rest of the rain-dazzled offering, and glitters up at her like a crow's eye.

[ ]

And years, years later, when she has fought, and loved, and tasted all the honey and vinegar of the world, she wonders which ears heard that pronouncement, and how it was received:

As a warrior's invitation, or a woman's threat.

[ ]

When her granddaughter—her girl, her gem, the best of her legacy—visits her, she feels what she has always dreaded. The two who accompany her…

They are not the upright shadows that cling to the borders of her dreams. They do not bear the agitated presence of spirits reeking of corruption, envy, impurity—they are not _anything_ she knows—anything she has killed—

But they are also not human. She knows they are not; her senses scream this at her. But she knows it especially, because,

The younger of them: he walks as though his feet ought not to crack the surface of new snow.

And the other: he wears his centuries invisibly—in dark footsteps.

[ ]

 _I hope you're listening, child_ , she sends toward her: the last of her family to be gifted with this. Cursed with this.

 _I hope you hear me, because it may be the last advice you'll ever get from this old woman._

The bow is warm when she picks it up, like it's never left her hand. She walks a few rooms over, and sets it next to the futon, next to the splash of dark hair and the slow, peaceful intake of breath. The string is taut, static—noiseless. She leaves the house, and through the night fragrances she smells dryness: the upright shadow of what has arrived for her. She addresses it.

"Were you too scared to come in?" she asks, her voice playful. A song.

[ ]

 _Not the sharpened point. The music is what kills the beasts for you._


	4. hot pants

**based on tumblr request: "zip me"**

* * *

It's the gloves that really send Yukine over the edge.

They're hideous, leopard-print things that crawl halfway up to Yato's elbows—and which the god currently insists are making him look "a billion times snazzier than that lightning-spitting, cut-rate mercenary Take."

"If you're going to spend all our money on clothes, you could at least make sure they don't _suck,"_ Yukine comments, cramming his hands into his pockets and thanking every star in heaven that both he and Yato are invisible to most people.

"The store lady told me these are lucky gloves!" Yato whines, stroking his face with his hands. Yukine thinks he can see something with a lot of legs moving in the faux fur, and he shivers.

"Of course she did—you look like a con man's wet dream!" he hurls back, ignoring Yato's squeak of affront.

"You carry your cash everywhere and you are _way_ too excited about telling people you're a god. Spendy and insane—a complete recipe for disaster."

Yato stops petting himself with the gloves, and pouts.

"You're cruel, Yukine. If you think so little of me, you can come along next time I do the shopping—just so you can see how _responsible_ I am with our money."

: : :

"I believe 'responsible' was the exact term you used?" Yukine says, fighting the urge to disembowel his master with the nearest hanger. Instead, he angrily sucks his juice box through a straw, turning his attention away from the commotion within the dressing room.

"C'mon! Look at these hot pants, Yukine!" Yato insists from behind the dressing room door. "They're _so_ _in_ right now!"

Yukine shudders.

"I will _not_ look. I never thought I'd ask this, but please _,_ just stick with the tracksuit."

Yato does something inside the dressing room that causes the hangers to rattle.

"I've actually been thinking about making some changes to my persona."

Yukine grimaces around the juice box straw.

"To something that involves hot pants…?"

He trails off as Yato throws the dressing room door open.

"Ta-da!"

Yukine sprays both Yato and the appalling paisley hot pants with his mouthful of juice.

: : :

Hiyori is over at Kofuku's by the time they get back. Yukine witnesses her jaw fall open upon seeing the two of them walk in.

"Did—what did— _how_ …?"

Kofuku sprints into the room after hearing their voices.

"Wow! Daikoku come look! Yuki-chan turned Yatty-chan into James Bond!"

Yukine's shoulders straighten slightly, and he glances in satisfaction over his handiwork.

When Daikoku walks in, his eyebrows go up.

"Well, I don't know about James Bond—but he sure looks a lot more like Kazuma than usual."

Yato sighs.

"Guys, I'm not just a handsome face and a godly body to ogle! Someone could ask _me_ what I think of this getup."

He turns to Hiyori, obviously expecting some backup. It doesn't arrive. She's still recovering from the initial shock of seeing Yato in a tailored suit.

"Hiyori?!" he says, looking betrayed.

She shakes her head, and her eyes snap back into focus.

"Oh…right! Um. What—what do _you_ think about it, Yato?"

He pinches the starchy collar, wrinkling his nose.

"I think it's super itchy. And I don't want to look like Kazuma. I want to look cool."

Yukine winces on behalf of his mentor.

"You look cooler in this than in that tracksuit. Or, heaven forbid, those hot pants."

Daikoku snorts.

" _Hot pants_?"

"They were even on sale!" Yato mourns.

"Well, I think the suit looks _sexy,_ " Kofuku insists, clinging to Daikoku's elbow and staring pointedly at Hiyori.

Hiyori ignores the look.

"How'd you even get him to put one of those on?" she asks, focusing her attention entirely on Yukine.

"Well…first we got kicked out of the place that sold the hot pants, and Yato was so upset that he was willing to go just about anywhere after that."

"Next thing I knew, I was in a monkey suit," Yato says, frowning at Yukine accusingly and scrunching his shoulders up in discomfort.

"This thing doesn't accommodate my biceps."

"I think it looks nice," Hiyori mentions quietly.

Yato stares at her. Then, he bursts out:

"Hey—Yukine! Let's go back and get six more!"

Daikoku picks up and shakes the yen bottle, indicating the four solitary coins clattering around the bottom.

"Yeah, in a few hundred years maybe."

Yato looks stricken—then collapses, weeping, against Hiyori's shoulder. Yukine winces. The suit _had_ been rather pricey.

"At least I have something nice to wear to the funeral of my career," Yato sighs dejectedly, as Hiyori continues patting his back.


	5. no clouds

**based on tumblr request: "mourn me"**

* * *

He had always loved looking up.

She remembers when Kazuma pointed out the stars to her on the nights they stayed up late, planning her duties. He would have noticed immediately when her stress was rising, when the first wrinkles of worry started to claim the corners of her mouth.

He would walk over to the window.

"Viina, will you come look? There are no clouds tonight."

She would join him, standing close—not _close_ —but close enough to feel the suggestion of his shape at her side, without having to glance over at him.

They would both look up.

"I think you have the advantage here," she would tell him, half-smiling. Still looking into the stars.

"I always see so much more sharply when you are helping me."

And Kazuma would respond, matching her light tone:

"I thought that's exactly what I was doing."

They would stand like that, for a few minutes, without looking at each other.

She thinks, now, that there were more than just stars for him in that sky.

: : :

She held him when it happened.

She would ask herself, after it was over—was he looking at her? Or was he looking just…upward? Past her, to something much bigger: a canvas far more radiant than her red eyes, her bruised, blighted skin?

She was a war god, in tears. A war god, weeping.

"Sorry," he groaned—though he could not groan, not really—not with the way his throat was broken and pulsing and open. She shushed him; she held him.

He was draining onto her, all of him, and she couldn't put any of it back inside.

"Sorry, sorry."

"Kazuma, be quiet. You'll live."

 _You said you'd be with me._

"Viina, I'm—" he coughed.

 _You said you'd stay._

He felt like an empty bottle: glass bones curved around ruined organs, all breaking apart in her arms.

 _So stay._

She leaned over him. She would have appropriated his death. She is a god, after all—

"You are my god. And I did it. I protected you," he said, and his smile was so terrible—red-streaked and bubbling and drowning him. And it was such a lovely smile, too.

"But I'm still sorry."

She held him when he died a second time. He was looking upward—at her—or maybe, past her.

"No clouds, Viina. See?"

: : :

She sits in her office. It has been quite a while since nighttime dropped its soft curtain over her windows.

She signs the last official form. Another night's work, completed well in advance. She is doing well. She is ahead of schedule.

She reaches over and turns the lamp off. Without it, there is only the freckled illumination of the stars. _A new moon,_ she thinks, getting up from her desk with a stiff back.

The window is dark, but as she walks over to it, she sees them. A million—a hundred million sparks of cold, diamond fire in the sky. More of them than ever.

More of them than possible.

He had always loved looking up.

"Kazuma," she whispers.

That same smile is there. It trembles on her lips—against her quivering voice—like shallow water.

"Kazuma, there are no clouds tonight."


	6. calls

**based on tumblr request: "call me"**

* * *

The phone rings.

He answers it: "How may I be of assistance?"

There's silence against his ear.

Then, there's breathing.

"I heard you can take care of…certain things."

Yato leans against the inclined wall beneath a derelict overpass, and pinches the bridge of his nose. The phone is chilly against his cheek.

"You'll have to be more specific."

The breathing stops. Then starts again—a little labored now.

"…Obstacles. If someone's in the way—you can make it stop being a problem."

Yato stops pinching his nose. He exhales slowly. His right hand twitches—like it needs to be moving.

The hand that kills is always a little bit restless.

"You heard right. Five yen is all I need."

He snaps the phone shut without a farewell.

: : :

The phone doesn't ring often, but when it does, he flinches.

: : :

The phone rings.

"I need your help."

Yato's eyebrows go up. He doesn't really… _help_ people.

He says as much.

"She's dying—because of me," comes the voice, tortured by distance and anguish—and then he recognizes it. It's the binbōgami's shinki. "Please, just cut my ties with the boy—I'll pay you—"

"I just need five yen," Yato says, sharply.

He's used to hearing surprised silence on the other end of the line, but this time, something else comes.

The man is weeping, quietly.

"Thank you."

: : :

The phone rings.

"Delivery god Yato, at your service!"

: : :

The phone rings.

He sighs, flipping it open.

"Your commitment to pestering me is verging on creepy."

"But you _will_ get to my job, right?"

Even through the phone static, he can hear her impatience.

"I'm working on it, Hiyori!"

" _Are_ you? Really?"

"Well…I'm mentally preparing myself to work on it."

Her disapproving silence makes him chuckle—and then grimace. He reluctantly admits to himself: she _did_ pay him…

"You're just not going to leave me in peace, are you?" he asks her, trying to sound as righteously indignant as possible. And he realizes, in shock—he genuinely doesn't know what he wants her answer to be.

"I'm just saying—you'd better get used to me, Yato," she retorts. "Because as far as I know, no one else can fix this little _issue_."

He grins. That answer is as good as any.

"Have you talked to a doctor, maybe?" he asks, all innocence.

She hangs up on him.

: : :

The phone rings.

"Hey, are you coming back at all, or are you just going to stay at Hiyori's all day?"

At Yukine's question, Yato aims a smirk at Hiyori's back. She doesn't see it, and keeps blithely working at her desk.

"Don't give me ideas," he says. Yukine makes a noise of vague censure—although Yato can tell it's not meant unkindly.

"She has work to do too, you know."

"Yes! _Obviously_ , that's why I'm here— _helping_ her."

"HEY, HIYORI!" Yukine hollers into his ear, and Yato nearly flings the phone across the room. He settles for holding it as far from his ear as possible, cringing at the residual whine in his eardrum.

"HIYORI, IF YATO STARTS TO GET ON YOUR NERVES, JUST TELL HIM TO GET LOST."

Hiyori turns around in her chair. She bursts into laughter when she sees the way Yato is gingerly holding the phone, dangling it from his fingertips like it's an explosive.

"Thanks! I'm good for now, though!" she calls back, loud enough for Yukine to hear her on the other end.

"What did I say, Yukine?" Yato says triumphantly—though he's still holding the phone half a foot away from his face.

: : :

The phone still doesn't ring often, but when it does, he doesn't have to look down to see who's calling. There are only two names that appear regularly on the ID—and either way, he'll answer.

Either way, he'll be smiling.


	7. burial

**based on tumblr request: "unbind me"**

 ** _this has to do with the idea that if a god is lost, their hafuri are lost too. so what if Yukine and Hiyori were both Yato's hafuri, and he had to sacrifice himself...?_**

* * *

The choice is before him.

Now he knows—and he almost has to laugh—that it really is true about hafuri.

: : :

With Yukine, things go as planned.

"You wouldn't do this on your own, would you?" he asks Yato, a shadow of accusation beneath the calmness of his tone. Yato doesn't have to tell him what is at stake.

"It would make sense," he says. He can tell that Yukine is wary of the seriousness underlying his usually light words. "Both of you are tied to me. And—I don't want either of you to be destroyed."

But Yukine has grown so much. The scared little soul Yato rescued from the cold and the darkness is older—gentler. He is snowlike, still.

"Before making that kind of a decision, you could try trusting us," Yukine mutters. "Or at least…me."

"I do trust you. That's why you're coming with me."

He pauses, and adds an unnecessary caveat:

"If you really want to."

There's no hesitation in the nod Yukine gives him. Yato hears in his silence: _Thank you for letting me die with you._

And then:

 _Thank you—for not making her._

"So," Yukine says, matter-of-factly. "When do we leave?"

Yato rubs his cheek, and averts his eyes from his shinki's sharp glance.

"Soon. Give me a little time."

"Are you sure—?"

Yato nods, too quickly.

"I-I'll get it done. Somehow."

There is both skepticism and sympathy in the look he feels from Yukine. Still, Yato tells himself he can say goodbye to her.

He says it again, and again, and again.

: : :

It is still horrible.

Things have always been…less easy, with her.

He's caught himself with the dangerous syllables of her human name on his tongue, and managed to catch them just in time. Yukine has nearly always been there as an intermediary to keep things safe.

But when he tells her this, it's just the two of them.

"You're doing _what_?" she asks, blinking dazedly, like he's struck her.

His second hafuri, born from the soul of a girl he knew years ago, waits for him to explain his insane declaration.

He just repeats it.

"I'm taking your name back."

"No," she says. "You're joking."

She says it with utter certainty. Her mood is still light, carefree—he feels that from her. Nothing she has ever known in this life could have led her to the conclusion that he would unname her.

They are with each other. They _are_ each other: all three of them, comingling in a unique, unbreakable intimacy that is the only real thing in their tripartite little world. It is completely sacred.

She truly doesn't believe he would damage that.

"You are!" She smiles at his lack of response. "I can always tell when you're joking."

Her smile—her innocence—is too blinding; it is too much for him. He thinks, _what if I don't—_

It's not fair, after all he's promised, to let himself die and make her keep going. But she doesn't remember that promise. He could never expect her to abide by it.

And, if he is a promise-breaker, then maybe she would have been better off with someone else after all.

"Take care of Ebisu," he says. He's already told the little god that he wants him to be the next to hold Hiyori's soul.

 _Just leave._

She's confused. She is not smiling anymore.

"Why Ebisu-sama…?"

He takes a step toward her.

 _Just do it, and leave._

He says: "You will be good for him—"

He almost ends it with, "Hiyori."

Instead, he lets the space stay blank, as it should be already. He is very close to her now.

 _Leave. Before you can't._

Nothing—not dying, not living—could ever be this difficult.

Her name is the color of the moon, and hides in the dip between her ear and jawline. His hand brushes over it before he realizes his arm is shaking.

"Yato," she says. "You _are_ joking…right?"

Her eyes follow his, even though he cannot look down at her.

"I wish I was," he says quietly, not trusting his own voice.

She is breathing more quickly now, shallow—a little fearful—right against his throat. And that's when Yato realizes, he will not come back. He would never allow himself to be this close to her otherwise.

Her arm reaches up to stop him—or hold him, maybe—but it is too late. He is taking the mark from her, lifting its pale shadow away from beneath her left ear.

His hand touches something else on her face, too. Wet.

"Don't," she breathes. "Please, don't."

 _She'll keep going. She'll be someone else's now._

But she was his, first.

"You have been a blessing," he whispers, his lips brushing her hairline. He pulls the name off her skin, holding it briefly in the air.

He takes it away. He frees her, and she is crying.

They both are.


	8. a mess

**based on tumblr request: "value me"**

 _ **set after chapter 68-if everyone survives, lol**_

* * *

"You are quiet today, Kazuma."

"Am I?"

"You have not challenged me once in the last half hour. I am beginning to think something is on your mind."

Her exemplar's face turns a startling shade of plum.

"I-I don't—"

He is obviously miserable. Bishamon sighs. Maybe she is just terrible at jokes. Her newfound acquaintanceship with the Yatogami must be affecting her sense of humor.

"You know, I will happily listen to whatever is bothering you," she says, hopefully.

"Viina, that is not necessary. Nothing is bothering me."

He is backing toward the door now, still carefully avoiding her gaze.

"Nonsense," she says, her voice authoritatively certain. "I feel something from you. Right here."

Her hand lands over her throat, indicating the weight resting there. The uncomfortable sensation has made itself known to her over the last few days—and she knows enough to recognize that its source is standing directly in front of her.

Kazuma, mortified, finally looks up.

"Have we not been through enough of this?" she asks, softly. "Have neither of us had enough secrets, Kazuma? I hope you do not think me shallow enough to rebuke you for having doubts, or fears. Is that why you will not speak?"

"That's not it," he says, sharply. Her eyes widen. His voice is filled with so much anger.

"No, Viina—that's not it at all. There's…nothing you can do. I'm sorry."

He breathes in, shakily. However, despite his words, he doesn't leave, and for a moment, Bishamon hopes he's reconsidering.

When he speaks again, the words are brittle.

"I have to get through this myself. That's just how things are."

He takes one step away from her, toward the door.

Bishamon asks, her voice suddenly very quiet: "Do you remember telling me I'd never be alone?"

Without turning around, he stops. His bent spine stiffens slightly.

"Yes."

"I think—I think I misunderstood you, Kazuma. And I'm sorry about that."

She takes a deep breath. She has fought with this admission for longer than she cares to think.

They have been so preoccupied with taking care of all her shinki—of making sure things are right with heaven—that they have never really _talked_. The two of them have relied for too long on the unspoken understandings that have collected like dust on their ancient kinship.

"If you have concerns about how things went with heaven—how _I_ handled things—then you should let go of them. Your advice has always helped me see clearly, Kazuma. Always."

He hasn't moved an inch. Bishamon waits, with her hands folded tightly.

Then, he moves very quickly—faster than she can anticipate. Kazuma whirls around and strides purposefully toward her. He grips her wrists—and through the firmness of his hold on her, she can feel him shaking.

"You should never have given me so many chances after I have let you down, time and time again." His voice is low, verging on desperate. "You should get rid of me. I am not a good guidepost for you, Viina."

Stunned, she has no immediate response.

Was _this_ —this guilt, this horrible, lonely responsibility—the reason for the terrible weight she has felt from him?

"Kazuma."

He shudders, still gripping her. Without her hands there, folded securely between his—he would look like he is praying.

Without a verbal response from him, she continues:

"You have very little faith in me, if you think I would keep you as my exemplar—my friend—if I did not absolutely believe you to be the best."

He still won't look at her, and she can't force him to catch his eyes with hers. She becomes frustrated. How can she make him understand—?

"I need your strength," she says, softly. His hands quiver. "I need your confidence. You and I are yoked. And—heavens forbid—if what happened to the 'Ma' clan were to happen to my family now…I think…"

She shudders, faintly. It is a horrible thing to claim. But there might be no other way to make him really see _—_

"I think I could make it through something like that again. But only—only if _you_ were there. If another tragedy like that were to strike…I could not do it. I could not breathe—or think—or find myself, without you. You are…essential to me, Kazuma."

His hands around hers spasm suddenly, and finally, he meets her eyes. The expression on his face is hard to read: a watery, fragile smile that she doesn't expect to see on his serious face. Then, she realizes in shock—it is mute, utter worship.

"I seem to be…a mess," he observes, half-amusedly. He lets his grip on her hands loosen slightly, and in response she grabs both of his, turning them palm downward. Both sets of their hands hover, held between their bodies like something fragile and divine.

"You look fine to me," she says to him, smiling slightly.

Then, she leans forward, and softly presses her lips to the back of his right hand—on top of the name she gave him, so many years ago.


	9. quick healing

**based on tumblr request: "nurse me"**

* * *

"Wh-what did you _do?!"_

Hiyori inhales sharply as Yato takes her arm, rolling up her long sleeve to reveal angry, blooming bruises across her right knuckles. The skin itself is torn and angry: deep, violent pink ribbons across her pale hand.

"Uh…I um…" she whispers something under her breath, and he leans slightly forward to hear, still staring in dismay at her hand. He doesn't notice how she jerks her head away from him, blushing furiously.

"How does this feel?" he asks, pressing experimentally on the deepest bruised area.

She yanks her arm back.

"Ow— _ouch!_ Yato!"

Hiyori sips a pained breath in through her teeth. She doesn't want to admit that her own overcautious movement hurt _so_ much more than Yato's gentle prodding. He takes a step back from her too, withdrawing his hands meekly. There are spots of color high on his cheeks, and Hiyori thinks he at last realized how close to her he was standing.

"Sorry—! I just wanted to help."

"Well…it's nothing," she mumbles. Everything above her collarbones feels like it's roughly the temperature of the sun. Yato's eyes drop, and she immediately feels guilty for her sharpness.

"You should, uh, put something on those cuts," he says, gesturing broadly toward her injured hand.

Hiyori nods, slowly, and then she hears herself say—

"Would you mind…um…helping me? Maybe?"

What. _The hell._

Where did that question even come from?!

Hiyori knows how to take care of her own injuries—she was practically raised in a hospital, after all. And, worse still, Yato _knows_ that. He'll think she's trying to take advantage of him—or take advantage of their friendship—or whatever "-ship" it is that they have—acquaintanceship? _Worship-ship?_

She shakes her head vigorously, trying to keep her foothold in sanity before completing the transformation into Full-On-Freakout-Hiyori. Then, she hears Yato say, distantly:

"Of course!"

 _Of course._ Like it's just something they do every day. Her tongue suddenly seems to fill her mouth.

"…Uh…"

"I'll help you!" he says, grinning. He looks like she's offered him the stars in a basket. "I've had a lot of experience patching myself up. So I'll make your hand all better, Hiyori!"

Hiyori follows him to the bathroom—which, considering Kofuku's entirely-too-frequent encounters with disaster, is stocked with a small medical-supply-room's-worth of salves, ointments, bandages, and various containers of questionable origin that Hiyori decides not to get too close to. Yato chooses a little tube of innocent-looking cream and directs her to sit down. She obliges, teetering on the edge of the tub.

Yato spins around, waving a roll of bandages from one hand and the tube of cream in the other.

"Are you ready?!"

His overzealous enthusiasm is really starting to make her nervous.

"I…think so?"

"Prepare to be healed within an inch of your life, Hiyori!" he says. Then, he gives her a somewhat evil grin.

"Of course, I will be charging you double for this wish—because you won't tell me how it happened."

Preoccupied with her emotional gymnastics, Hiyori doesn't at first notice that Yato is getting down on both knees in front of her. By the time she does notice, he's already rolled her sleeve up and started squeezing the cream into his palm.

"Wh-what're you—"

"This'll sting," he interrupts, suddenly very professional. He smooths the cream over the angry gashes, and Hiyori tries to hold in her hiss. It's more cold than it is painful.

But that's not why she nearly jerks her hand away.

"That hurt?" he asks, looking up in concern.

"Uh…yeah. I mean…a little. Um, Yato—"

"I'm almost done, then we'll bandage you up and you'll be set."

She gulps. Her hand seems to have at least twice the number of nerves necessary. Through the frigid burn of the cream, she feels that Yato's skin is very, very warm.

"Yato."

His hands, still carefully smoothing the cream onto her cuts, stop moving. Hiyori feels a prickle on her skin that tells her he is looking at her, even though her own eyes are downcast.

"Something wrong?" he asks, still cradling her injured knuckles.

"No," she admits. "It's just…cold. Like you said."

His hands are a lot larger than hers. This is a new—and rather confusing—observation.

"If it hurts too much, just tell me—"

"No, no."

Hiyori swallows again. Some detail about this side of Yato clenches something in her—it locks up in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She pictures him, battle-weary and all alone, treating his wounds after some war or other—and her throat aches.

He starts wrapping the bandages around her hand, guiding it smoothly around her wrist and knuckles to avoid wrinkling. He does it quickly, with practiced ease.

To her complete horror, tears start to sting the corners of her eyes. Hiyori panics. If she starts crying now, then Yato will assume _he's_ the one who hurt her.

And, sure enough—

"Hiyori…?!"

He stops wrapping her hand, and withdraws his own, obviously concerned that whatever he's doing is really painful for her.

"Sorry," she says, choking it out with difficulty. "I'm sorry. This is stupid. I shouldn't have asked you to help."

His face crumples. Hiyori realizes she's just made the situation roughly a thousand times worse.

"—No! I just meant,"—she fumbles, searching for the right words—

"You…don't have to do everything I ask you to. You don't owe me anything…I don't know…I'm sorry. Again. Um."

She trails off again, her cheeks burning.

Then, without replying, Yato continues bandaging her hand. Hiyori's eyes shoot up to his face, but he's looking down, still concentrating on his task.

"Well…I'll do it because I want to," he says at last, gently.

"Wha—?" she starts, but he interrupts her.

"I want to help you, however I can. Not because of any debt—but for my own selfish reasons."

He wraps a few more strips of bandage, then hesitates before continuing:

"I'm…kind of glad you hurt your hand, actually, so I could do this."

He tucks the end neatly under the bandage fold, and pats it once.

"All done!" he says, totally cheery and bright again. Hiyori finds herself reeling from his shift in mood.

Then—almost as an afterthought—he scoops up her hand again, lowering his face to drop a quick kiss on top of the bandage. Hiyori's mouth drops open. Yato lifts his head again, and she sees that he's at least matching her blush—if not surpassing it.

"For…um…quick healing," he says, tripping a bit over the words.

Under the bandages, Hiyori's hand still stings. However, the shy, perfect smile on her face doesn't leave for hours.


	10. a short story

**for an anonymous angst request on tumblr :)**

* * *

"Would you believe me if I said I can fit my whole fist in my mouth?"

Across the room, Yukine sighs.

"Why don't you try? Might shut you up."

Yato throws him an indignant glance, and Hiyori catches Yukine sticking his tongue out.

"I wasn't asking _you_ ," Yato huffs, turning his back on his shinki. "I was asking Hiyori."

She covers her mouth with a hand, trying to hide a laugh at both of their expenses. Choking back her giggles, she says:

"Well—if anyone can do it, it's you, Yato."

: : :

Hiyori spins, letting Yato get the full effect of her outfit. It seems to be a bit much for him.

"You look…um…" he trails off, not even bothering to hide his stare.

The pearldrop delicacy of the fabric catches the sunlight. It dances up her wrists, her arms, up to where it nestles in the gleam of her hair.

"Well? What do you think?" she asks impatiently, blushing.

Yato breaks eye contact. He shoves his hands deep in his jersey pockets, distorting its shape.

"I'd tell you how you look, but I don't think you'd believe me."

: : :

"Would you believe me if I said I wanted to kiss you?"

The question comes—not necessarily out of nowhere—but rather out of a comfortable, intimate silence that Hiyori had been enjoying. But when he asks her that, she suddenly can't hear anything other than the enormous _bump, bump, bump,_ of her heartbeat.

"Uh—I. Uh…"

The smell of him destroys her ability to form a logical sentence. He's very close.

"Is that a no?" he asks. His eyes are on her. She's burning, burning.

He is too close, and her throat is dry.

"It's…not…" she whispers, hoarsely.

And then he's kissing her softly: a perfect question. She leans in.

The answer is yes.

: : :

"Hey, Hiyori."

"Hmm?"

She doesn't look up. He's sitting behind her, playing with her hair. She's a little afraid to see what he's done with it.

"Would you…would you believe it if—"

"Yes."

He tugs a loose strand, making her wince in annoyance.

"You didn't even let me finish!" he whines.

"I didn't need to!" she returns. "You always know what I'll say."

But Yato's silence after her response makes her think that maybe something's different—this time, at least.

"I was gonna say, would you believe me if I said I lov—"

He cuts off suddenly as Hiyori sits upright, spinning around to face him. Her hair whips out of his fingers, and she catches him with a deer-in-the-headlights expression. His hands are still awkwardly lifted in front of him.

"—That I love Capypa Land! That's all I was gonna say," he finishes, giving her an embarrassed grin. "Wow, Hiyori, what did you think I was about to—"

Her Tōno training kicks in, and a few seconds later Yato is begging for mercy, his arm bent at an impossible angle under her elbow.

"Fine—! _Fine!_ That's not what I was gonna say!"

She releases him.

"Good," she remarks, sternly.

Neither of them notice that she's breathing a bit harder than usual.

He rubs his arm woundedly, and she takes advantage of his distraction to press a quick kiss to his nose.

"Besides, you _always_ know what my answer will be."

Hiyori pauses before continuing. When she does, her voice has a small quiver in it.

"And I…love you too."

: : :

Humans are so fragile. She is fragile. And now, she can never forget that again.

First it was shortness of breath, then exhaustion—then, suddenly, she's hooked up to machines that beep all night. Enough beeping to drive her insane.

Luckily, she's rarely alone.

"What, no cleverness?" she says playfully, as Yato sits in her bedroom, helping her find the edge pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

He turns to look at her, and her breath catches. That could also be the sickness…but she doesn't think so this time.

"Would you believe me if I said I could solve this dumb puzzle in under ten minutes?" he asks, growling at the mismatched pieces.

Hiyori laughs, but it's interrupted by coughing. His hand slips behind her back, supporting her while her lungs rack themselves empty. When she recovers, she sees him watching her. His suffering face betrays his agony of powerlessness.

So she smiles, as widely as she can, and pushes the pieces of the puzzle toward him.

"I'm really showing faith in you for this one. Let's see if you can solve it in nine."

: : :

Yato and Yukine are in her hospital room. Yato sits on the bed next to her, and Yukine sprawls across the foot, reading a book.

They've been here every day—cheering her up, bringing her gifts, showering her with smiles.

"Would you believe me if I said you're looking a lot better?" Yato says, loud enough for Yukine to hear him.

Hiyori's thin hand covers his. Her skin is colorless: weightless tissue, next to his warm vitality. She looks up at him, and her heart breaks—and when he smiles wetly at her, it manages to break again.

"Sure I would," she says, lifting his fingers to her lips.

: : :

Time to go.

They're here with her—everyone she's loved. Her parents, her friends. Even Daikoku and Kofuku stand outside the glass window, well away from the hospital equipment—although everything that could go wrong clearly already has.

Hiyori's eyes can hardly open, but she knows there are two more at her bedside. One of them is a small, shivering figure, trying to keep his smile steady for her as she floats away.

"You could come back," Yukine says. Then softer, unsure: "…maybe."

She really doesn't know. If she does come back, it won't be as Hiyori. Maybe she doesn't want to come back, if she can't be herself.

Maybe that will make all the difference.

Yato is there, too. She's watched something inside him break a little bit, every day that brings them closer to this. Soon, the whole world becomes a pale, distant blur: all except his face, his eyes, his smell.

Through the fading, she feels him lean closer.

"Would you believe me, if I said I'll find you again?"

His breath is against her cheek; he's so _warm_. She wants to curl up there.

"Wherever your soul goes—wherever you try to hide—I'll find you, and I'll make you come back."

Her friends and family only see her silent smile, but the answer is the same.

 _I believe you. I believe you. Always._


	11. gun

**based on tumblr request: "fight me"**

* * *

"Scissors beat paper! Haa, haa," Yato crows remorselessly over his livid rival.

"This game is insufferably stupid," Bishamon growls, looking as though she wants nothing more than to slap Yato with her currently outstretched and upturned palm.

"You don't _have_ to play, Viina." Kazuma ventures a step or two from his corner of safety, where he had been standing with Hiyori and Yukine. "It doesn't mean anything if you lose."

"Of course it means something," Bishamon snarls, glaring at Yato as he clutches his stomach in laughter. "If I can't win even a little game, how am I expected to be an effective strategist?!"

Kazuma gurgles a passive, barely audible response, retreating meekly to Yukine's side and resigning himself to being a mere witness. Meanwhile, Hiyori regards the ongoing competition with blank amazement.

"How did Yato get so _good_ at rock, paper, scissors all of a sudden?" she whispers to Yukine. "He hasn't even lost to her once, and they've been playing for half an hour."

Yukine heaves a sigh of complete exhaustion.

"Yesterday, we did a job for a person who turned out to be a small-time god of chance. Instead of paying us _real_ cash, she just promised Yato he'd have really amazing luck for twenty-four hours with any game of random chance that he plays."

"A god of chance?!" Hiyori says, surprised.

Yukine nods.

"You know how people have little rituals they perform before they roll dice?—or any quirk, really, that makes them think they're more likely to win? Those little wishes can add up and, apparently, create a god."

Hiyori listens, nodding pensively. In the meantime, Bishamon looks ready to tear apart an army as Yato finishes winning his streak of forty-two uninterrupted games.

"I guess she must not be very powerful if she needs to hire another god to do chores for her," Hiyori muses, giving the dispirited Kazuma a few encouraging shoulder pats.

Yukine shakes his head. "It would _really_ have been nice if she could have paid us for real, though."

Hiyori looks back over at Yato, who is wiggling his fingers directly in front of his eyes and giggling like a child.

"I don't know," she says, smiling. "He looks pretty excited."

Yato poises his hands for another round.

"Ready to get beaten again? Or will you finally admit that _I,_ the almighty god Yato, am in fact the most powerful, most generous deity—on a par with the Seven Lucky Gods themselves—"

"I will _never_ admit to that!" Bishamon sputters, her face reddening with frustration and rage.

The outcome of the game is predictable enough: Yato holds up his closed fist in victory, trumping the "scissors" of his opponent.

"Rock beats scissors! Wow, are you sure you're a god of _war_? More like a god of _sore_ …losing," he adds, reluctantly ruining the rhyme. Bishamon's eyes flash with something cold and lethal, and next to Hiyori, Kazuma curses softly. Yato remains blissfully oblivious to both these occurrences.

"So…wanna try again, or are you willing to concede defe—"

 _"Gaiki!"_

An arc of startling light leaps into Bishamon's hand, and she takes aim—straight toward Yato's clenched fist—

A few seconds later, the dust settles. There's a small crater where Yato had previously been standing. He had lunged out of the path of fire, and currently hugs the wall next to Hiyori, staring at Bishamon with an expression of absolute injury.

"You _shot_ me," he says, incredulously.

Bishamon gives him a triumphant look before carefully holstering Gaiki.

"Gun beats rock."


	12. dad jokes

**based on tumblr request: "amuse me"**

* * *

It has been a very long day…of absolutely no jobs.

"I'm bored," Yukine groans, resting his chin on one hand while the other idly twirls a pencil. Across the room, lazing on the futon, Yato covers an enormous yawn.

"Nice to meet you, bored," he says. "I'm Yato!"

Yukine blinks twice, then turns to look at the god.

"Excuse me?" he asks in disbelief.

Yato's phone rings, sparing him from any explanation. He flips it open, propping it gently against his ear.

"A-yup? Oh—hey, Hiyori!"

Curious, Yukine sets his pencil down and pays attention to the one-sided conversation. Yato scratches his nose, still with his ear to the phone. Then he looks at Yukine—and a Cheshire grin slides across his face.

"Yeah, Hiyori…you _could_ call me later…"

Another pause—this one loaded with mischief.

"—Or you could just call me Yato."

Yukine's forehead meets the open book in front of him with an audible _thwack_. Across the room, Yato yelps.

"—She hung up on me!"

: : :

In the evening, when Hiyori meets up with them, Yato wastes no time in chastising her for her rude cutoff of their conversation.

"I thought I could always count on you to hear me out!" he whines, casting a glance over his shoulder at Yukine to make sure someone is backing him up. Yukine reluctantly shuffles forward, shrugging in apology at the very unamused Hiyori.

"I'm honestly… _hurt_ ," Yato concludes righteously. He folds his arms and waits for her response.

Hiyori, who hasn't yet spoken, is totally deadpan. Then:

"Hi there, honestly hurt. I'm Hiyori."

Yato gapes at her, his power of speech seeming to have short-circuited. A half-gurgled response is all that he can offer.

But the choking sound that comes from behind Yato makes both him and Hiyori turn to look. Trying to suppress his snorts of laughter, Yukine holds one hand over his mouth while his face turns the color of an overripe plum.

"Both…of you…you're—"

He gasps weakly, clutching his sides and wheezing. When he finally collects himself, he has to wipe his leaking eyes. Yato and Hiyori are still staring at him, starting to look rather worried. Yukine straightens up again and clears his throat.

"You're both such dumbasses," he says. The insulting words are tinged with affection from his broad smile.


	13. capypers and capes

**another tumblr request!**

* * *

Hiyori hears her phone chirp, and looks down to see a tweet from Yato.

 _Y: "Hiyoriiiiiii~"_

She ignores it, turning back to her books. Seconds later, the phone chirps again.

 _Y: "Help me decide on a Halloween costume!"_

She sighs, setting down her cup of tea and the homework that has been dominating her evening. She picks up her phone and types out: _"Well, what are your options?"_

She presses "send." A few minutes later, her phone lights up with a new tweet.

 _Y: "Yukine won't be my capyper partner. So I can't dress up and sneak into Capypa Land."_

Hiyori's nose wrinkles.

 _H: "Capyper…partner?"_

 _Y: "The capyper costumes are too big for either one of us, so there has to be two people inside it managing the costume."_

Hiyori knows what the next tweet will say before it arrives.

 _Y: "Hey…Hiyori…"_

 _H: "I will NOT be your capyper partner."_

She can almost hear his wail of despair all the way from Kofuku's, and she stifles a chuckle.

 _H: "Why don't you be something else?—something less…big?"_

 _Y: "Like what? :((("_

Hiyori ponders. She really doesn't know what to suggest. It's never occurred to her to try thinking of Halloween costumes for other people before—she's barely even considered them for herself. She really shouldn't have been surprised, though, that Yato would be fully invested in the Halloween culture.

A few seconds later, Hiyori has an epiphany. Her face lights up as she composes her next tweet.

 _H: "How about…a superhero!? It even fits with you wanting to become a god of fortune!"_

 _Y:_ ** _"! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !"_**

"You really think I'd be a good superhero?!" Yato hollers right next to her ear, materializing in the middle of her room. Yukine arrives as well, obviously in the middle of trying—and failing—to curb his master's holiday enthusiasm.

"Hi Yukine," Hiyori greets him, earning herself a bright smile.

"Hey Hiyori." His smile quickly fades into a look of anguish. "Please help me. I don't want to be half a criminal capyper."

"Yato's not going to make you dress up and sneak into Capypa Land," Hiyori says sternly, turning back to Yato. " _Are_ you?"

Yato doesn't answer. He is already occupied in removing one of her curtains so he can sling it around his shoulders.

"Would this be a good cape?" He twirls.

"Yato!" she shrieks in dismay.

Yukine rips the curtain off the still-spinning Yato and hands it back to Hiyori.

"Why can't you buy your _own_ cape?" she demands, clutching the fluffy curtain protectively to her chest.

"Waste not, want not," Yato says, making a futile grab for her other curtain before Yukine steers him firmly away from the window.

"What he means is: we're dead broke," he clarifies.

"So just go steal someone _else's_ curtains," Hiyori mutters.

Yato starts climbing through the window.

"Okay!"

At that moment, Hiyori's eyes sparkle with a new idea, and she quickly succeeds in dragging Yato from her window back into the room by his jersey collar.

"Wait—!" she says. _"_ Wait. Yato—don't you still have the robes you made for Kamuhakari?"

He twists his neck to look up at her. She still hasn't released her grip on his collar.

"Yeah, I do," he admits. "But…they're kind of a wreck—what with going through a multidimensional heavenly war and all—"

"Never mind that," she interrupts. "As long as the cloth is still good…"

Yato takes a second to catch on—then, his eyes sparkle with understanding.

"Ohh!" He scrambles to his feet, setting his hands on her shoulders. "You're a genius, Hiyori!"

She flushes. "Well…not really. Anyway, I think there's enough fabric to make you a fine cape, Yato."

Yukine leans around Yato, silently mouthing _"thank you_ " at her.

"—And there's probably enough to make Yukine a _sidekick_ cape, too!" Yato exclaims. He lets go of Hiyori long enough to grab his shinki around the neck and forcibly ruffle his hair.

"It'll be a big family Halloween party!" he continues, alight with excitement. "Hiyori, you'll be my damsel in distress, right? The hero always needs to have a fair, defenseless lady to rescue—"

Hiyori suddenly goes silent. Both Yukine and Yato see the look on her face—and simultaneously realize the outcome of his foolish question.

"Let's run," Yato whispers.

"It's _you_ she's after," Yukine retorts, shoving himself away from Yato just in time.

 _"Jungle Saaaa-vate!"_


	14. fearless little boy

**about Yukine before he died. inspired by chap. 70**

* * *

He is a fearless little boy.

That's what all the adults around him have said, some with a tinge of worry in their voices. His father is one of them, but he says it with pride.

"You're not afraid of anything, are you?" And he pats the little boy's head, ruffling his honey-blond hair.

[ ]

Across the room, he hears his sister crying: soft, quick sobs that are muffled under her blanket. He pads across the room on cold feet.

"Are you afraid?"

"No," she hiccups. She emerges from the blanket, furiously scrubbing her cheeks.

"You are afraid." He sits on the edge of her bed, staring at her wide, wet eyes.

Her only response is a sniff. He scoots farther onto the bed until she makes room for him, and then he slides under the covers with her. Even though the night is warm, she's shivering like a violin string.

"What are you scared of?" he whispers, pulling the covers up so they're both huddled beneath. Right next to him, he hears her quietly swallow a sob.

"The dark."

"That's silly. You weren't afraid of it before."

The little boy grabs his sister's hand. She flinches at the contact, but doesn't pull away. Her fingers are freezing.

"Nothing lives in the dark," he whispers. "And—even if it did, I wouldn't let it get you."

[ ]

But sometimes—even fearless little boys with the sun in their eyes and the earth on their heels must understand that the world is incurably sick. That there is a reason his sister never looks at her father, and wilts into herself when he walks near. That comforting hands that have always ruffled hair can curl into fists.

He stands next to his sister's little bed, looking down at her small, waxy face. She looks exactly the same, from where the sheet ends at the delicate dip of her neck. She looks exactly the same as she always has.

Horror rises in his throat, and he runs—his knees hitting the tile next to the toilet where he weeps, and heaves, and weeps. And even though he's so guilty he can't even breathe—he kept his word. It wasn't really the dark that got her.

[ ]

The fearless little boy has never been afraid of the dark.

It's not the dark that can hurt him, but what lives with him in the daylight.

[ ]

He sits in the closet when he hears heavy, staggering footsteps in the house. The bitter, wet tang of alcohol cuts the air even behind the door where he sits. How many nights has he curled up here?

This one marks a month.

[ ]

His father stands still—terribly still, but somehow awkward. His features tip at an odd angle that the boy has never noticed before. His father looks down at him, sitting as small as he can on the cold closet floor—

and then he smiles: an unnatural, monstrous grin that provokes a shiver.

"So you've been hiding from me, after all."

The little boy's fingers grip his knees as he squeezes himself inward. There's nothing else he can do. He can protect his organs, sacrifice his bones.

"Well, your sister was never quite as brave as you," his father says quietly.

[ ]

"You're not afraid of the dark, so this shouldn't be too bad."

He's sitting in the closet again, but this time the door is locked from the outside.

He doesn't know how many hours pass before he gets let out again. When he is, he's weak from hunger, and every drop of salt in his body is spent.

His father's face is serious, and the kindness in his voice hides the streak of insanity beneath it.

"You really must learn that boys who are fearless, also have to be good."

[ ]

It's always the closet after that—until one time, he slips. He says something about his sister.

He doesn't remember what he says: something about a flower that she liked. Her favorite fruit. Maybe he mentioned a funny story that used to make her laugh, but it doesn't matter.

Nothing matters…unless, perhaps, it's making himself as small as possible in the trunk of the car, as his father hits every pothole.

[ ]

Fear is a hot, driving momentum—a discordant song in the blood that pumps his legs as he runs. This is not fear. This is the blackness underneath it.

The little boy started out fearless, and that's how he ends.

[ ]

Maybe his father gets bored of his little game. Maybe he just runs out of money to keep his plaything alive and struggling.

Mockingly, through the cracks in the wood: "You aren't scared of the dark, are you?"

The last time the little boy fights to keep breathing is when the lid closes on him.

[ ]

 ** _You're not afraid of anything, are you?_**

For a few moments, he thinks his sister is with him. At first, he's happy. Maybe he'll see her again.

Then, he realizes the voice he hears is not the gentle one from his memory.

 ** _You were never the one who was afraid. That was always me._**

"I'm sorry…" he whispers, sucking the scant air through his dry lips.

 ** _I don't care._**

"I'm sorry."

 ** _No one cares if you're sorry._**

He sees a waxy, lifeless face in the darkness with him. He cringes away from it, cornering himself further in the airless little box. His eyes squeeze shut and she's still there, _she's still there._

She was always afraid of the dark, but she lives here now. They're both in the dark, forever, and she died hating him.

They both died, afraid in the darkness, and hating the same thing.


	15. plants don't have ears

**Yukine Week 2016 - for the prompts "fluff" and "Suzuha"**

* * *

"…I really don't get it."

"What—that plants are like people?"

"Yeah," Yukine retorts. "Because they're _not_ like people. They're plants."

Suzuha stands a little way down the hillside. He leans back, balancing his trowel against one shoulder, with the other hand resting on his hip. He has to squint to look up at Yukine, since the sun has begun tipping toward the western horizon.

"You sound like someone who's never gardened," he comments with a grin.

Yukine glares down at the sad patch of brown stalks by his feet. Next to Suzuha's realm of vivid, upright green, his own experimental plot looks like it's been deprived of light for a year.

"There's…probably a reason for that," he mutters, kicking a pebble down the hillside.

Suzuha looks at him for another second, his sunny grin still intact. Then he sighs, swinging his trowel down to tap against his thigh.

"I'll try to explain it better," he says patiently. He walks up to stand a little way across from Yukine, with the dying plants in between them.

"All living things have the same basic needs. Once you understand that, you'll have gardens growing all around you."

Suzuha plops to his knees next to Yukine's square of mutilated plants. Reluctantly, Yukine kneels across from him. The soil is warm, moist against his bare knees. He feels the prick of grass on the palms of his hands as he leans forward to watch Suzuha work.

"Everything has to have a nice home: somewhere with a lot of light and fresh air. And, of course, it has to be kept clean."

Suzuha's fingers pry a bundle of weeds out of the dirt, lifting the roots free and tossing the whole clump aside.

"Like that!"

Yukine nods. That doesn't look so bad. Reaching out, he starts to tug hard on one of the tallest weeds, grunting with impatience when it refuses to budge. Suzuha, laughing, grabs Yukine's wrist to stop him from yanking the stalk off its root.

"First of all, you have to stop weeding as though you're pulling teeth."

Gently, he corrects Yukine's hold on the weed, guiding it free from its foothold. With Suzuha's hand around his, Yukine feels his own fingers relax. Then, the hand around his lets go, and Yukine shakes the dirt from the weed to toss it aside. His cheeks are pink—a little warmer than usual—but Suzuha doesn't seem to notice.

Yukine clears his throat.

"Okay, now I can pull a weed. So…how are plants like people again?" he challenges, brushing the dirt from his palms onto his shorts.

Suzuha just laughs again, prompting Yukine to glance up in surprise.

"I'm not really trying to be funny," he says, narrowly avoiding a whine. "What's the joke?"

"You _are_ funny, Yukine—whether or not you're trying," Suzuha says, still chuckling. Yukine bristles, and Suzuha smiles at him again. He's always so unperturbed—like a tranquil lake.

"Most people would just let it go…but you really want to understand." Suzuha pauses. "I like that."

Yukine's eyes dart off to the side. "Oh."

A moment passes, filled with the silence of insect wings, and rustling plants, and growth. Then, Suzuha clears his throat.

"So. Plants and people. They both need a nice place to live, without weeds and clutter." He gestures sweepingly at the flower-decked hillside.

Yukine nods, adding:

"And no tooth-pulling—metaphorically."

"Exactly." Suzuha agrees, settling back onto his ankles. Yukine, sitting across from him, mimics his posture.

"They both also need food, of course—"

Suzuha jerks his chin over his shoulder, toward the softly murmuring river at the bottom of the hill, then points over Yukine's left shoulder where the sun throws its warmth against his back.

"Water and sunlight, of course." Suzuha smiles again. "And all these plants have plenty of both."

Yukine sighs, and folds his arms tightly across his chest. His eyes drop to the sad, brown little plants at his knees. Their weed-free patch is sunlit and moist, but they still look neglected.

"Then why aren't they growing the right way?"

"That's another thing," Suzuha says. His voice is quiet, and Yukine looks at him suddenly. Pink is touching the tips of Suzuha's ears.

"You have to give them attention and care beyond the physical. You have to be their warmth."

Privately, Yukine thinks that Suzuha is much better at that than he'll ever be. Out loud, he says:

"And how do you do that, exactly?"

Suzuha puts his hand down on the ground, among the struggling, fragile sprouts. His fingers sink into the dirt, and he exhales deeply, as though his breath could travel all the way down his arm and into the soil. He closes his eyes.

"Suzuha. What are you doing?" Yukine asks skeptically.

Suzuha's green eyes flutter open again.

"I'm talking to them."

Yukine's silence is that of utter confusion. Without saying anything, Suzuha takes his wrist with his free hand and sets Yukine's on top of his own.

"You can try it, too. I think they'll like it."

Yukine finds himself leaning forward, without any command of his own movements.

"That's stupid," he murmurs. "Plants don't have ears."

Suzuha laughs, again. He has such a nice laugh.

"Is it stupid?"

Their faces are an inch apart. Then, half an inch.

"Plants grow better when they're cared for," Suzuha says softly. Beneath Yukine's hand, his thumb moves. "And people are exactly the same."

Yukine can smell his skin: fresh water, brown roots. He can count the sugar-fine freckles under Suzuha's eyes. His head feels all soft and fuzzy, like his body is melting: pliant, softening bit by bit toward a source of warmth and brightness.

The kiss itself is brief. Both of them pull quickly away, faces bright and flooded with blushes. Suzuha looks down at his hand, with Yukine's smaller, paler one settled gently on top of it. His skin always seems to be cold, even on this afternoon, with heat shimmering in the distance and beads of sweat on their faces.

"That's still, um…kind of…stupid," Yukine manages to whisper through his dry throat.

Suzuha's gaze flicks up from Yukine's mouth to his eyes—then he grins again—an irrationally broad smirk that makes Yukine blush ten times more violently.

"Not if it works."

* * *

Yukine saunters into the room where Yato is curled up on one of the futons like a lazy cat. When he sees that the room isn't empty, Yukine halts at the doorway and makes a quiet sound of surprise. Yato looks over at him.

"What's up?" he asks, stretching mightily and sitting upright.

"Nothing," Yukine answers. From his collarbones to the top of his forehead, he's as red as a boiled lobster.

Yato smirks. "Wow, sounds really interesting."

"Shut up."

Yato yawns extravagantly, lying down again and rolling over so his back is toward Yukine. He hears uncomfortable shifting from the doorway. Then, Yukine asks in a small voice:

"Um. You didn't feel anything weird while I was gone—did you, Yato?"

Yato snorts loudly into his elbow.

"I think you're still too young to be doing _that_."

A hard kick catches Yato in the middle of his back, sending him flopping gracelessly across the wooden floor. His head clips the corner of the table, and through the ringing in his ears, he hears Yukine shouting something that sounds like "sweaty old perv" and "seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you!?"

When Yato rights himself, he sees that a frowning Yukine has stolen his place on the futon.

"Well." He rubs his sore head. "To be honest—no, I didn't feel anything weird. Why?"

Yukine shrugs, refusing to make eye contact.

"No reason. Just curious."

Yato grunts noncommittally, and a few seconds later Yukine shuffles out of the room. Yato pretends not to hear the soft sigh of relief from beyond the doorway. He finally allows himself to smile.

It's been impossible to ignore the euphoria he's felt from Yukine all afternoon: the untethered lightness at the top of his spine…the sensation that his feet are about to float free of the floor…

Yukine is happy, happy, _so happy._ And yet.

Yato holds his breath, ignoring the quiet, hungry darkness at the back of his consciousness. It's lurked there, sleeping in his memory like a docile wolf ever since he named Sekki.

He will do whatever is necessary to keep it asleep—especially if it's as simple as feigning ignorance about a harmless kiss. So Yato lets himself bask in the vicarious elation. He sends a silent thank-you to the person who's made Yukine this happy.

With a life like that, the kid really deserves whatever joy he can find.


	16. storm and flower

**about Tenjin and Tsuyu. inspired by chap. 71**

* * *

The exiled scholar decides to rest for a moment beneath the branches of a plum tree. Though it is still midwinter, the tree seems to glow with the promise of an early blossoming. The scholar sits under the tree, staring up at its bare, whispering branches. He has always loved plum trees.

The roots are warm, and as his body slips into stupor, he thinks for a moment that the roots are soft arms, holding him close.

This might not be such a bad place to die.

: : :

When spring comes, the stray dogs find bones among the plum blossoms.

: : :

A restless presence traverses the countryside. Unjust was his exile, and lonely his end.

In his wanderings, he finds others such as him: frail points of consciousness, eternally suspended between this earth and the other place. But they aren't really like him. They can't touch the living anymore.

He can still touch. He can still strike.

: : :

Although he never enjoyed causing suffering in his life, the vengeful spirit takes pleasure from it in death. Although prayers billow to him like rancid plumes of smoke, there are never enough to satisfy him. There are never enough offerings to fill his wrung stomach.

Somewhere, deep inside the soul-part that died along with his body, a soft voice whispers that he will never be happy with their pain.

: : :

It is a cloudy spring day when the tall stranger stands underneath the branches of a plum tree.

He inhales deeply, preparing to call down the bolt that will split the heart of this frail, blooming thing. He draws a breath—and lets it out silently again.

He is not alone beneath the plum tree.

: : :

The woman who stands in front of him is beautiful. Horribly, intensely beautiful.

The kind of beauty that pours light into all the places he'd rather keep dark. The kind of beauty that rends, and reveals, and reassembles. The kind of beauty that makes the dead part of him ache.

He wants her to leave.

To his annoyance, he finds that he doesn't have the ability to meet her gaze. He stares at the ground when he demands:

"Tell me your name."

The woman laughs. If possible, her laughter is more terrible, and more bright, and more beautiful than her face.

: : :

"I will not be bothered with vagrants and fools," he says, testily.

The woman's eyes narrow infinitesimally. The tiniest twinge of regret tightens his chest—she is neither of those things. She is as far from them as the mountaintop is from the ocean.

"In that case, you may want to examine yourself, Sugawara no Michizane."

This is an unpleasant woman, he decides. She is chastising him in the mild, measured voice of a mother to a misbehaving child.

But he is a god, and he does not have to listen to women who call him so arrogantly by his true name. He does not have to listen to anything that discomforts him. For a long time he has set aside diplomacy, and courtesy, and gentleness, in favor of the blistering euphoria of wrath.

This woman is just the kind of person he would have wanted to meet during his life.

Now, he wants to see how quickly she can die.

: : :

He breathes, summoning the lightning, but she never looks away from him. She regards him with a mixture of heartbreak and scorn, and it is awful, and it is glorious.

"I think it has been a long time since you have been happy, poor little god," she says sorrowfully.

: : :

The lightning stays trapped in his throat.

"I will be happy once I kill you," he counters.

"You will feel pleasure, yes," she admits. "But you will not be happy."

: : :

Twice the blow is stayed, and twice it is he who is standing shocked instead.

"Then…what will make me happy?"

Why did he ask her that?

The woman does not seem surprised. She looks up at the branches, feathered with frosty white blossoms.

"Do you remember?"

His breathing staggers.

"You always loved plum trees."

: : :

His last happy moment had been among the tree roots, entangled in them like a lover with his beloved. And he had rested, and he had slept.

"You," he mouths, silently. The air in his throat is no longer electric. The twisting emptiness within him loosens, then unknots.

The woman is smiling at him, but she is no longer fearsome.

"You asked me my name," she says.

Something bright slips from the corner of her eye to her chin, and he reaches out—but it is gone before he can catch it. The woman takes his hand, presses his fingers together in a cluster, and sets the tips of them against her smooth forehead. His fingertips begin to burn and brighten: a five-petaled flower of warmth blooming between her skin and his.

"I would like you to give me one, please."


	17. something to say

**my take on how Adachitoka will make Yatori canon, if they decide to do so at all.**

* * *

After dinner, Yato tugged Hiyori aside into the empty kitchen, where the remains of their meal still littered the sink. She turned to him, surprised to see his eyes were downcast and his ears had darkened to a scorching red.

"What is it, Yato?" she asked. Then, in deep suspicion: "Did you say something weird and now you need me to protect you from Yukine?"

The blush spread from Yato's ears down the back of his neck. Hiyori saw blotches of crimson appearing on his cheeks.

Whatever he had done, it must have been really bad.

Yato scratched his neck.

"I…I do have something to say," he muttered.

His hand caught Hiyori's, their fingers interlocking. She sucked in a quick breath, looking down where their hands connected. Yato's grip was so tight his knuckles nearly broke through the skin.

As she raised her gaze to his, her breath caught in the back of her throat. He was watching her, hungry for every change in her expression.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, through a suddenly dry throat.

"I'm not sure yet," he answered. His tone had dropped as well. Hiyori found herself inching toward him.

He murmured something she couldn't hear through the rush of blood in her ears. It felt like the floor was tipping beneath her feet. As she swayed, Yato's other arm found its way around her waist and to hold her upright.

"I—"

He broke off. His Adam's apple bobbed.

Against her waist, his hand clenched.

"I'm sorry."

Hiyori looked up at him, a question on her face. Yato lowered his forehead to hers.

 _"Sekki."_

: : :

She woke up disoriented. Tumbling into her bathrobe and across the hall, Hiyori switched the bathroom light on and gave her reflection a glance. Rat's nest hair. Dark circles. Tear tracks.

Hiyori touched one of the pale lines, salt grit scraping against her raw skin. Her eyes throbbed, still swollen and aching from tears she couldn't remember shedding.

: : :

Yato released her hand to catch the arc of silver that gleamed into his palm. Keeping his forehead pressed to hers, he released a shaky breath.

 _"I love you."_

The blade sang. She awoke.


	18. mother's day

"Ready?"

Hiyori walked up behind Yukine as he was putting the finishing touches to his essay. During the past few months she had discovered his aptitude for analytical writing, and quickly set him to work on weekly short essays that the two of them would review together.

"I'm ready," Yukine said. He avoided her gaze as she sat down cross-legged at the table.

"So, what did you decide to focus on?" Hiyori asked. She reached for his essay, but Yukine kept his palm pressed flat against the paper, holding it in place.

"Um," he said. Hiyori's inquisitive gaze burned into his forehead.

After staring pointedly at his own fingernails for a few seconds, Yukine took a deep breath.

"Isortofwroteaboutyoubutit'snotweirdoranythingpleasedon'ttellYato."

After spouting his confession in one desperate gust, Yukine clamped his mouth shut again. His skin was turnip-red from neck to scalp, and his chin had begun to tremble in anxiety and embarrassment.

Hiyori's confusion became obvious as she untangled his sentence. She stared at him in consternation.

"Me?" she asked. "Wasn't this going to be your Mother's Day essay?"

Yukine nodded, making a sound like a kitten being trod on.

"Just read it," he whispered. He shoved the paper toward her as though touching it burned him. Hiyori picked it up.

 _Dear Hiyori,_

 _I know you're not technically anyone's mother, and I'm not saying I think of you like a mother, because that would be weird for both of us. And probably everyone else too. But especially Yato, because_ (–the last two sentences were scribbled out, but Hiyori squinted, managing to decipher them up until the word "because," which seemed to be where Yukine had dropped this disquieting train of thought.)

 _Anyway, I wanted to write my Mother's Day essay to you like a letter, because you're nice, and friendly, and a lot of the time bossy (but in a good way!) and you stayed with us even when you probably shouldn't have. _You also make me do my homework, kind of like a mom would. I don't mind that, usually.__

 _You've also protected me before, even though I'm dead. You've protected Yato too, even though he's a god._ _Not everyone would do that, Hiyori. I hope you know how much we appreciate it._ _There are some people who manage to make everyone around them happy, without even trying._

 _You might not be anyone's mother, Hiyori, but we need you just as much._

 _I'm happy you stayed here._

 _I'm happy you decided to remember us._

 _Love, Yukine_

By the time Hiyori reached the signature, she had to struggle to read it through the blur of moisture in her eyes. Her nose threatened to drip onto the page and she gave a great sniff, which prompted Yukine–still furiously blushing–to look up. His mouth fell open at the sight of her blotchy, crumpled face.

"Hiyor–?"

She slapped the letter down onto the table, then launched herself at him. Yukine shrieked.

Summoned by the panicked cry, Yato burst into the room–only to see Hiyori sobbing all over the front of his shinki's shirt. Yukine tried to get up, but Hiyori clutched him tighter and wept still more forcefully.

When he met Yukine's hubcap-round eyes over the top of Hiyori's head, Yato's expression darkened. Yukine began to shake his head.

"Care to explain?" Yato growled.


	19. tougher than most

**inspired by myrkks' art on tumblr**

* * *

Humans, Yato had already learned, were shockingly fragile. A mobile maze of organs, all trembling on the verge of collapse. It only took one finger in the socket. One step into a busy intersection. One drop of venom in the bloodstream.

Some humans were built tougher than most.

Hiyori was built tougher than most.

She felt so alive—soft in her curves, sharp in her joints. Warm and messy, and flawed, and present.

She hadn't moved for a little while. She hadn't made a noise.

"I've got you," Yato said. "You can rest for a few minutes. Then get up. Okay?"

He shifted with her in his arms. Her forehead slid against his chin. A nod.

"We'll take something back with us to Kofuku's, when we go tonight," Yato said, musingly.

They would stop by the bakery. Hiyori loved the bakery. She would go out of her way to walk past it, just to smell the steam coming out the door. She would probably like walking past it today.

The wind teased her hair, lifting it against his face and carrying the smell of her shampoo. Her hair stuck to his cheek. She liked the kind of shampoo they sold in a little pharmacy a few blocks away.

She liked it because, she said, it smelled nice.

Nice like a worn tracksuit.

Or, maybe, she had never said that at all.

"You aren't ready to go yet. Are you?" Yato said, knowing she wasn't.

She was happy to sit here, tucked into him. They could sit here for a while longer. He didn't mind. She would never have let him hold her like this before.

After all, she was tougher than most.

Yato's nose wrinkled as the next breeze carried a blunt, metallic scent into his face. A war smell. A dying smell.

He angled Hiyori's face into his scarf to shield her from it. Her eyelashes spidered against his jaw. Her nose pressed into the hollow of his neck, right behind his chin.

Warm, her skin against his. Maybe he was the one growing colder.

Hiyori might be tougher than most, but he wasn't.

Gods, Yato had already learned, were shockingly fragile. A breath away from extinction, hitchhiking from century to century in the hopes that a wish might stick. It only took one worshiper lost. One shrine unused. One name unremembered.

Yato had let himself go. He had anchored himself too firmly.

"We'll go back together pretty soon, all right?" he asked.

He had woven his existence into her fibers—absolutely, unreservedly bound to this girl who was tougher than most.


	20. okay

**for the-delivery-god on tumblr**

* * *

Hiyori woke up.

She thought she had been dreaming. But if she had, it had been an unsettling one. The night seemed to have tipped slightly on its edge, transforming the familiar forms of her desk and closet into eerie shapes that listened.

Next to her, Yato raised himself up on his elbows, his eyes gummy with sleep.

"Sumfngthematter?" he slurred.

Hiyori turned her neck to look at him. Drool crusted one corner of his mouth and his eyelids hung at half-mast. An imprint of the pillowcase's wrinkles clung to his cheek.

"No," she whispered back.

She flopped back down onto the mattress, making the springs complain beneath her. Yato scooched closer, burying his nose in the side of her neck. He sighed, throwing an arm across her stomach.

Hiyori was still working to throw off the hold of her dream. It loomed next to her bed, as intangible and faceless as the dark. Her breath stuttered.

"Yato?"

"Mmph," he muttered. He pushed his face deeper into her neck. The arm across her body tightened.

"Will you switch places with me?"

She waited. After ten seconds or so, she wondered if he had just gone back to sleep.

Then, quicker than she could squeal in surprise, Yato hauled her into his arms. He flipped her over his body so she landed on the other side of the bed, her back to the wall. As though the interruption had never happened, Yato snuggled his face back into her neck. In flipping her, he had flung a leg over her hip, and Hiyori found herself all but immobilized. His arms slunk around her ribcage, pulling her into his chest. Yato hadn't moved, so the space between his body and the wall was barely enough for her to lie comfortably on her side.

"Okay?" Yato asked. His voice was soft and rough with sleep.

Hiyori pressed her nose into his hair.

He'd begged her to let him use her shampoo. The hints of feminine strawberry and vanilla tangled with his distinct Yato-smell. She freed her hands from between their bodies, sliding them up his chest to cup his jawline. Her fingernails tugged through the soft hairs at the nape of his neck, her thumbnails inscribing circles on the delicate skin of his throat.

Yato's lips brushed her collarbone, and he sighed deeply. The little wrinkles between Hiyori's eyebrows relaxed.

"Yeah," she breathed. "Yeah, this is okay."


	21. firefly eyes

**so basically, i listened to fourth of july by sufjan stevens. oops.**

* * *

You have been sitting there for a long time. I saw you walk in the door, and once you looked at me lying here you pulled up the hard little chair from the corner, right up to my side, and you haven't moved since.

Are you comfortable there? The couch might be nicer, especially if you're waiting. _Are you? Are you waiting?_

"Hello," I say. "Who are you?" _But I know you already. You're the boy with the firefly eyes._

"Hello," you say. "My name is Yato."

I love your name. I feel…proprietary, towards it. It is mine. Yato is mine.

"I'll carry you somewhere, if you like," you say. The bed is a good place, but I know there are better places out there.

You lift me into your arms, and I am small next to you; the dove bones shift under my skin.

"You're a nice young man," I say, patting your cheek.

Was it a dream I had, that we knew each other before this bedroom? Dreams and reality flirt with each other's borders these days.

 _I know there is a long black shape lurking behind me. That is always the same—dream or not._

"Where should we go?" you ask.

"The best place to go is up," I say. Isn't that true? The dove bones that shift and slip against each other in my skeleton tell me they would like to go up. And I am a slave to my bones.

We go up to the roof of the hospital. You hold me close to you, away from the sobbing wind.

 _Who do you miss?_

You look down at me. A shard of the sky has fallen off and landed in your eyes. Does it hurt? Is that why you're crying?

"Do you remember?" you ask. "Do you remember how we've done this every day?"

 _It's all right, little boy god._

"You're a nice young man," I say.

Your skin shudders under my fingertips. Your angles are my angles: a couple of paper cranes, hung against the sunset. _Do you have someone else to take care of?_

"Can I follow you?"

You ask this with dry lips and sore eyes. I ache for your emptiness. My hand is on your cheek again. You have ageless skin. I love touching it.

"You'll come too, someday." _Except I know you can't. You are a god of the unfinished, a priest to the needy, a mender of broken things. As long as there are people to fix, you'll be here to fix them._

Your ageless skin smells like a garden in the heaviness of the rain. It smells like the bitter, too-early cherries after a warm winter. It smells like the childhood I must have had.

You belong to the youth I must have had. _My moon in the sky. I'll miss you so much in the dark._

"Yato."

"Yes."

 _But as long as I'm still breaking, I need you here_.

"How long have you known me?"

Your chin trembles. A peculiar quiver finds its way over your lips. And then you kiss my cheek. _I love you, I love you, I love you, and I've remembered your firefly eyes._

"Not long enough."


	22. you've thrown off the emperor's groove

**for myrkks on tumblr**

* * *

"I'm sorry, but you've thrown off the emperor's groove," the parti-colored guard said to Kofuku, who was then summarily tossed out the third-story window.

: : :

"You can't just destroy my village to make room for some…some _animal theme park!"_ Hiyori growled. Yato gasped in horror.

"It's not just an 'animal' theme park. It's Capypa Land!"

"What the hell is a 'capypa'?!"

"Well," Yato sniffed, "it's more important than you, that's for certain."  
: : :

Fujisaki admired his nails from atop his towering throne, an expression of perfect contempt on his face.

"It is no concern of mine whether your family has–what was it again?"

The villager stuttered out: "F-food?"

Fujisaki let out a bark of laughter.

"Ha! You really should have thought about that before you became peasants!

: : :

"Ah, how shall I do it?"

Fujisaki contemplated how to most efficiently kill Yato while Yukine waited patiently in the background.

"Oh, I know." He rubbed his hands together, an evil expression twisting his features. "I'll turn him into a flea, a harmless, little flea, and then I'll put that flea in a box, and then I'll put that box inside of another box, and then I'll mail that box to myself, and when it arrives… _I'll smash it with a hammer!"_

: : :

Fujisaki approached Yukine, who was busily arranging salad forks before the beginning of the fateful dinner.

"So," Fujisaki said casually. "Is everything ready for tonight?"

Yukine straightened one of the egg cups. "Oh, yeah. I thought we'd start off with soup and a light salad, and then see how we feel after that."

"Not the dinner," Fujisaki growled. "You know…"

"Oh, _right_." Yukine slapped his forehead. "The poison. The poison for Yato, the poison chosen especially to _kill_ Yato, Yato's poison."

He paused.

"That poison?"

: : :

(In reference to Yato, a freshly minted llama, passed out on the dining room table.)

Fujisaki: "WHAT? A _LLAMA?!_ HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE **_DEAD!"_**

: : :

Emperor Yato, collapsed and weeping against the fountain, was a spectral and disturbing sight for the confused Hiyori.

"I'm an ugly stinky llama!" Yato wailed. "Llama faaaaace!"

Hiyori took a step closer.

"Um," she said. "It's. It's okay–"

"Did _you_ turn me into a llama?!"

Yato turned on her, his tear-swollen eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"You were awfully uncharitable about capypa land. Is _this_ "–gesturing to his fully realized llama body–"your _sick revenge?!"_

: : :

Hiyori burst from the water, coughing and spitting. Immediately she looked around for her llama companion–and found him unconscious and rapidly sinking. Dragging Yato to shore, she muttered:

"First with 'Capypa Land,' then with the criminal accusations, and now _this–"_

Flopping Yato's body onto the ground, Hiyori knelt to listen for a heartbeat. The thick fur muted her hearing, but she could make out a dull, uneven thump. She had no idea what a llama's heartbeat sounded like, but that seemed promising.

"Wake up," she commanded, shaking Yato's head from side to side. "Wake _up_!Come on! Wake up! Dammit, I'm not going to–"

Hiyori froze. What if she _had_ to?

She looked down at Yato again. He remained stubbornly not-breathing.

He was the Emperor, and in most cases, a divinely handsome–albeit selfish and conceited–man.

But he was also a _llama_.

She couldn't think it. She closed her eyes.

A few moments later, Yato's opened with a snap. Hiyori's face hovered above him, her face suspiciously red.

He noticed this before he began heaving water up out of his lungs, emptying a good portion of the river out of his airway.

"What…did you…" he wheezed.  
"Nothing!" Hiyori shrieked. "I did nothing!"

: : :

"They don't allow pets in this restaurant," Hiyori noted, pointing at the sign above the door.

"You know what _that_ means," Yato said. Hiyori thought at that moment he looked as evil as a bedraggled and half-starved man-boy-llama possibly could.

The waitress seated them at a window table. Under his bushy faux mustache, Hiyori could tell Yato was grinning like a demon."Thank you," she muttered miserably.  
"Yes, thank you ever so much," Yato cooed. "We're on our honeymoon, after all." He fluttered his eyelashes across the table at her and Hiyori cringed into the depths of her menu.  
"What'll it be?" asked the bored waitress.  
"Oh, you already know what I like, darling," said Yato in a syrupy tone that turned Hiyori's stomach.

"Two specials, please," she whispered, reluctantly allowing Yato to clasp her hand in his gloved one on top of the table.

After the waitress left them alone, she knocked his hand away.

"I've changed my mind," she hissed. "First, don't _ever_ ask me to order for you again, and second, next time I will let the jaguars finish what they started."

: : :

"I've been turned into a cow," said Kazuma. "Can I go home?"

"Sure," said Fujisaki.

: : :

"Wow, can you believe that after all that trouble, my dastardly advisor would get turned into a harmless kitten?" Yato asked. When he didn't get an immediate answer, he nudged Yukine meaningfully.

"Not really," Yukine said with a somewhat torn expression on his face as he cradled a wide-eyed Fujikitten.

"Or that all this time I was an extraordinarily handsome and compassionate Emperor in the guise of a pitiful llama?" Yato continued.

"Not really," Hiyori replied, turning as red as the sunset and refusing to make eye contact.

"Or that capypas are, in fact, the most beautiful creatures to grace this green earth?"

"Not really," said Hiyori and Yukine in unison.


	23. only one ball

**for a tumblr request**

* * *

Yato tossed back the last of the sake, earning himself an impressed look from a few of the other gods and an irritated snort from Takemikazuchi. Then he slid off his cushion onto the ground, high spots of red blooming on his cheeks.

"Maaaaaaan," Yato whined. "Don't you guys do anything up here besides fart around and get drunk?"

"Look who is talking," muttered Fukurokujū, adjusting his monocle.

"What, are you too good for the rest of heaven now, Amagiri-no-Mikoto?" Kagutsuchi asked in profound condescension, elongating Yato's nickname in a mocking drawl.

"I'm just booored," Yato whimpered. Bishamon sighed, rising from her own cushion to heave him upright again.

"No," she said patiently. "You are–as I've heard the humans say– _sloshed_."

Yato swayed, a burp climbing up his throat. Bishamon winced. He had obviously spent enough quality time with Near Shore alcohol to result in a woeful lack of tolerance for heavenly liquor.

"'M'not," he slurred. "I can– _urp_ –totally beat you at ping pong again, Bish'mun. Watch me."

"Yato," Bishamon said in warning. Takemikazuchi and Ōkuninushi were almost finished setting up the ping pong table, and Yato was still sprawled face-first on the grass.

"I'm up!" he said cheerfully. He sprang to his feet–and immediately stumbled six feet to the left. Bishamon averted her eyes from the sight, instead looking over to Ōkuninushi just as he whistled to her that the table was ready.

"All right–now who's playing against who?" he called.

Bishamon let her gaze return to Yato. He was now spinning in place, wearing a placid expression and trying to catch gnats out of the air.

"You really owe me for this, you imbecile," she muttered.

A few minutes later, she and Yato were well on their way a spectacular loss. Yato flung his paddle to the left as the ball sailed over his right shoulder.

"Did I hit one of them?" he asked, his expression hopeful and a little cross-eyed.

Bishamon served ferociously to Takemikazuchi. "There's only _one_ ball, Yato," she growled.

"Still more than he's got," Yato pointed at Take without missing a beat. The storm god's face tightened in fury, the air around his head beginning to crackle with electricity.

: : :

"A…ping pong injury?" Hiyori asked in confusion, as Bishamon led her and Yukine into the manor.

"Apparently Takemikazuchi was displeased by the insinuation about his organs," Bishamon explained. "And decided to take it out on Yato's."

Yukine winced. "Oh."

At the door to Yato's room, all three of them could hear him snoring like an idling tractor.

"Still sleeping it off, I would say," Bishamon said, rubbing both her temples.

"Thanks for taking care of him," Yukine said, giving her a look of sincere gratitude. Hiyori nodded in agreement.

Bishamon let herself smile as the two of them went to tend their hungover god.

Yato had said something to her as she ( _almost_ gently) rolled him into bed to sober up.

 _"Hey…yer…almost nice som'times, Beesha. I like…that…"_

But before he could finish the thought, his eyes had rolled back in his head and he had passed out cold. Remembering it, Bishamon chuckled.

"You are…almost nice too sometimes, Yato."


	24. first time

**for a tumblr request**

* * *

"Hey."

From where he crouched, watching three ladybugs sun themselves on a broad leaf, Yukine looked up.

Suzuha had already straightened to his feet and was gazing down at him. The corners of his mouth were tilted up in an enigmatic half-smile that instantly snared Yukine's curiosity. He stood up too, brushing damp grass and soil off his knees.

"Take one of these," Suzuha said. He twisted one of the wide, flat leaves off its stem and handed it to Yukine, who accepted it with a somewhat bemused expression.

Suddenly, Suzuha turned and started walking down to the nearby stream. Yukine trotted after him, clutching the leaf. He stopped at Suzuha's side as the other boy halted at the edge of the water.

"What's up?" Yukine asked.

"I wanted to show you something," Suzuha said quietly. He sat down right next to the water, crossing his legs under him. The soft, river-smelling breeze whispered by, tugging at their sleeves and twisting their hair.

Yukine sat down next to Suzuha, still cradling the leaf in his palms.

"You know I've seen this stream before," he said after a few moments of silence. The sarcasm came out more petulant than he intended, and his cheeks burned. Suzuha just chuckled.

"I know you've _seen_ it," he said. "That's not what I wanted to show you."

Yukine blinked in confusion. "Huh?"

Suzuha held out his hand. Yukine stared at it for a long moment, before realizing he was asking for the leaf. He handed it over, watching as Suzuha carefully curved its edges up into a leaf-shaped bowl.

"This is something I used to do with Tomoko," he confessed. The tips of his ears were turning pink.

Yukine tried to ignore how his stomach swooped at the information, and how his hands suddenly felt cold. He swallowed loudly, trying to mold his face back into a normal expression as Suzuha leaned forward and dipped the leaf cup into the water. He quickly brought it to his lips, drinking the water as it ran down the "spout" of the leaf.

Yukine found himself staring as Suzuha wiped a few drops of water off his chin, then held the leaf out toward Yukine.

"Now you try!"

"Uh…" Yukine looked dubiously at the leaf. "Okay."

Taking the leaf, he dipped it into the water, trying to form a cup the same way Suzuha had. The water, alpine cold, rushed and sparkled over his hands. He lifted the leaf out of the water, his grip unsteady as the edges of the flimsy cup trembled.

"Yukine–" Suzuha warned.

"I've got it," Yukine said, gritting his teeth. He brought the leaf to his lips–and promptly spilled the whole thing down the front of his shirt. Gasping at the shock of icy water on his chest, he let the leaf drop from his hands.

Suzuha burst into laughter, and Yukine growled. Even as he shivered, his face was on fire with embarrassment.

"Shut up," he muttered, scrunching his eyes closed.

A pair of rough hands scooped beneath his, and Yukine's eyes shot open again.

Suzuha had scooted forward on the grass. His face was only a short distance from Yukine's, his eyes gentle.

"I can help you," he said, laugh-whispering. "Since it's the first time you've tried."

Yukine gulped. From this proximity, it was easy to see the smattering of golden freckles across Suzuha's cheeks and over his nose. Finally, he nodded in acquiescence.

Dipping the leaf into the stream again, Yukine used Suzuha's hands under his to steady and balance it. Those hands didn't pull away as he lifted the leaf back to his mouth. He began to tip it, opening his mouth to drink–when a warm fingertip suddenly brushed against his lip.

Yukine choked.

For the second time, the waterlogged leaf dumped down his chest and began dripping below the waistband of his pants. As Yukine pounded his chest, trying to calm his fluttering heart, Suzuha let loose a ringing peal of laughter.

"I guess we'll just have to keep trying," he said.

Even though his eyes were still watering, Yukine managed to crack them open. His coughing turned to laughter when he saw he wasn't the only one blushing.


	25. a little bit of letting go

**yatori hurt/comfort**

* * *

"'M'sleepy," Yato said. He gave an outrageously huge yawn, then stretched, unfurling all his limbs until he lay backwards across Hiyori's lap. She snorted.

"Comfy?" she asked acidly.

"Yep!" he said. He grinned lazily up at her, his eyes pushed into blue squints. She tried to glare back at him, but he yawned again, and she felt herself begin to fall victim to his contagious relaxation. The afternoon outside was sultry and yellow. Napping weather. Her eyelids felt like five-pound weights.

"Okay," she mumbled. "Five minutes."

Yato smiled up at her drowsily, and his eyes drifted closed. Hiyori leaned her head against the wall. It felt smooth and warm, and smelled heavily of honey and ash. Outside, the cicadas whirred.

 _"Pl…ease…" the creature groaned. "Yato-sama…"_

 _Its mouth was wide, all bubbling saliva and twitching black lips stretched over an army of blunt, jagged teeth. Eyes pulsed like wounds out of an expanse of necrotic phantom-flesh._

 _"Save me, Yato-sama," the thing begged. Its voice was horrifyingly human. But then it began to cry: monstrous, ruining sobs that crashed through its body. Its eyes rolled in its skull, leaking huge, gelatinous tears that dripped into its gaping mouth._

 _Yato was on the floor beneath it. He was pinned down. The thing clutched at him, and kept crying._

 _"Why did I have to die like that?" it groaned. "Why wouldn't anyone help me?"_

 _The thing that was Sakura was entirely on top of Yato now. He didn't say anything. He didn't move. He could feel, beneath the layers of blight and anguish, that she didn't really want to harm him. She was crying because it hurt. She was hurting and terrified and broken, and he could fix her, maybe, if he just had enough time—_

 _But the thing vanished. Like the electricity had suddenly been flipped on, the whole scene got brighter. Yato blinked. He was standing up._

 _And there she stood, facing him: whole, and healthy, and human._

 _"Sakura," he said._

 _She shook her head. A sad little smile hid in the corners of her mouth. Without any trace of anger, she asked:_

 _"Do you think you'll ever let go of me?"_

Hiyori's eyes snapped open. Her breathing came in quick, shocked spasms; she felt like her stomach was climbing up through her ribcage. For a moment, she couldn't see anything but the expression in Yato's eyes when Sakura asked that question.

She looked down at her lap, where Yato still slept. His arms were folded across his stomach, and his face looked as serene as a child's. Hiyori leaned closer, examining his features for any sign of tension. A huge tear slid off the end of her nose and splashed right between his eyebrows.

Slowly Yato's eyes opened, coming to focus on her face.

"Hey," he said, smiling sleepily. Then, worriedly: "Hey, Hiyori? What's wrong?"

She stared at him. Another tear slipped down her nose, landing on Yato's upper lip. He sat up at once, and turned her gently by her shoulders so he could see her face. Hiyori felt more tears coming: the corners of her eyes stung with them. They rushed messily down her face and over her lips as she stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Hiyori, come on," Yato urged. "What is it? What happened? Did I…did I make your legs fall asleep?"

She brought her hands up to his, gently pulling them away from her shoulders. He let go of her at once and sat back to give her some space.

"I have to tell you something," Hiyori said. Her chest felt clogged and wet.

"Okay," he said, encouragingly.

Hiyori swallowed with some difficulty. "I know about… _her_ ," she whispered.

Yato leaned closer to hear her lowered voice. He stayed there, and was very still.

"Who?" he asked after a moment. It was clear to Hiyori he knew exactly who she meant.

"Sakura," she said.

He didn't respond for a very long time. The stillness—the chilly restraint of his whole body made Hiyori regret saying anything.

"I think it's my—my cord," she said, rushing to get the words out before her throat started to choke up again. "I've been able t-to see your past, I think. I didn't mean anything by it, Yato. I'm so sorry, I…"

She trailed off with a miserable sniff, not daring to say any more.

"How much?" he asked.

Hiyori blinked again, and tried to gulp down the enormous lump at the back of her throat.

"I saw…a lot. I saw you name her, and—and I saw you use her to kill somebody—"

When she looked at his hands, they were clenched into such tight fists that his knuckles looked ready to pop through the skin. She took a long breath through her nose, and continued.

"I saw that she was the first to call you 'Yato' instead of 'Yaboku.' I saw Nora…that she didn't like what was happening to you. Neither did your father. But—but I saw you were happy with Sakura, and that you loved her. I think she loved you more than anything."

Hiyori caught her breath, and realized she was crying again. Yato's head was bowed low, his hands trembling violently against his knees. She so wanted to reach out and hold them.

"Then, Nora asked her the question that made her go…wrong," she said, forcing her voice to cooperate. "You didn't know what would happen. Sakura learned the name she had when she was alive, and then she—turned into something else. She was hurting you, by accident. You had to make her stop. She wouldn't stop."

Hiyori paused for several seconds. When she resumed, her tone was quiet and steady.

"I know you can never tell Yukine any of this. We can never let what happened to Sakura happen to—"

 _"We?"_

Yato's sharp interjection surprised her into silence. He lifted his head to stare at her, his eyes harsh and suffering.

" _'We'_ can never let that happen?" he asked, bleakly.

Hiyori dug through her mind for something to fix the mistake she'd somehow made.

"Um. I mean—" She faltered, stumbling over her tongue. Before she could begin choking out an apology, he asked:

"What do you mean, 'we'?"

Hiyori stared at him. For a second her mind was in too much chaos to comprehend the question.

"You," she said at last, feebly. "And, um…me."

Yato didn't drop her gaze. His lower lip twitched. "That's not your responsibility," he said, and Hiyori's stomach sank through the floor.

"I know," she muttered, lowering her eyes. "I shouldn't have…looked at your memories like that. I know I shouldn't have. But I thought you should know that I'm not going to say anything dangerous to Yukine. And I'm not—"

"Hiyori."

She looked up at him again. She saw something wet sparkling at the corners of his eyes, and her breath caught.

"I killed someone I loved," Yato said. The wetness began creeping down his cheeks.

"You had to," said Hiyori.

"I didn't know what was happening to her," he said.

His breath began coming more unevenly, in ragged, sobbing gasps that ripped through his lungs, pitching him forward into an almost fetal pose. It happened so fast: he was quiet, and then suddenly he was crying hard and loud, and Hiyori realized with a jolt of understanding that he had never talked about this before.

He had never said Sakura's name, never told her story to anyone—until now.

Hiyori scooted forward on her knees. She put one hand on Yato's back, and smoothed the other over his hair. He leaned into her, almost involuntarily, and she held him close. After a moment of hesitation, he wrapped both his arms around her. He held her so long, so tightly that her ribs complained, but she wouldn't let go.

After a few moments, he was quiet again, his face buried in the side of her neck, sharp chin digging painfully into her shoulder.

"I wish I had met you a long time ago," he said.

Hiyori gave a watery smile.

"I don't know," she said. "Things aren't so bad now, are they?"

Yato gave her one last aching squeeze before releasing her again. Hiyori let go of him, though somewhat reluctantly. He really did smell… _overwhelmingly_ nice when she was in her spirit body.

Yato cleared his throat meaningfully. She looked at him, a question on her face.

"You didn't, uh," he stopped, and bit his lip. He met her eyes for a second, but dropped them again quickly. "You didn't see…anything else from my dreams. Did you?"

Hiyori's eyebrows pinched together. "No?" she said dubiously. "I don't think so."

Yato sighed, making an obvious effort to appear less relieved than he really was. "Hm. That's good."

He said it in such a suspiciously casual tone that every alarm in Hiyori's head sounded off at once. Her first impulse was to push the topic, but she held back. However fragile and transient Yato's happiness might be, she wanted to preserve it for as long as possible.

At that moment, Yukine popped his head into the room, making both of them jump halfway out of their skin. Or, in Hiyori's case, her soul.

"Are you guys _still_ asleep?" he asked in disbelief.

Noticing the strange looks on their faces, his mouth tugged into a frown.

"What's going on with you?"

Hiyori opened her mouth, about to speak, but Yato beat her:

"Hiyori had a bad nightmare," he said with utmost satisfaction. "I was comforting her. Wasn't I, Hiyori?"

She turned to glare at him, only to find his eyes shining back at her. The smile underneath them was genuine. Hiyori looked at him helplessly for a moment, then shut her mouth and gave Yukine a tight nod.

Yukine, profoundly unsettled by their behavior, gave a deeper frown.

"Well," he said, "if you get tired of being…um, comforted, then Daikoku's making supper downstairs. He could use some help." This last bit was directed at Yato, who instantly became very busy picking invisible fuzz out of Hiyori's hair.

"Right," said Hiyori, desperately fighting to keep her face neutral as his finger swept over a tingly spot behind her ear.

Yukine backed out of the room, muttering things under his breath Hiyori thought she was better off not hearing. Yato untangled his fingers from her hair.

"Are you staying for dinner?" he asked. Hiyori saw the look he was giving her, and understood the deeper question.

"Yes," she said.

Boldly, her hand found his.

"I'm staying right here."


	26. almost cupcakes

**a request on tumblr from the-delivery-god**

* * *

Hiyori sidled into the kitchen, drawn by the scent of something warm and brown and sweet wafting from the oven. Yato had his back to her, and was vigorously stirring a huge metal bowl.

"What smells so good?" she asked, closing her eyes as she sniffed rapturously.

"Look and see," he said, without glancing up from the bowl. His face was starting to turn red from exertion.

Hiyori cracked the oven door open and the air, shimmering with heat, burst against her face. It smelled like everything good she had ever dreamed of eating. Three trays of golden cupcakes glowed on the oven racks.

"Mmmm," she sighed. Reluctantly, she let the oven door close again.

"What's the occasion?"

"I wanted cupcakes," Yato said, voice straining as he stirred. "That's the occasion."

Hiyori nodded. She walked silently to where he stood over the counter, still whisking the bowl with a feverish energy that bordered on concerning.

"Whatcha mixing?" she asked, poking her chin over his shoulder so she could look into the bowl.

 _"Agh!"_

Yato jumped at her sudden nearness, the spatula in his hand flicking a glob of the substance in the bowl straight onto Hiyori's nose. He looked at her over his shoulder, and as his eyes dropped to her nose, his lips twitched in what bordered incriminatingly on a smile. After a second of shocked silence, Hiyori scooped the dollop of chocolate frosting off the tip of her nose and stared at it.

"It's frosting," Yato said at last, quietly.

Without saying a word, Hiyori reached up toward him with her chocolate-covered finger. Yato, not knowing what to expect, flinched slightly. She swiped the rest of the chocolate frosting onto his nose, leaving a long brown mark there to match her own.

: : :

A few minutes later, Yukine returned to a scene of carnage.

There was frosting on every visible surface of the kitchen, and a thick, foul-smelling cloud of smoke clung to the ceiling. Hiyori was fanning the blackened remains of the cupcakes, which were still quite obviously smoldering. Yato stood on the counter and tried to silence the smoke alarm, which emitted an ear-splitting shriek every five seconds.

"What happened?!" Yukine demanded, surveying the wreckage before him with deep dismay.

Hiyori glanced up at him from the cupcakes. Her cheeks were smeared with frosting, though most of it seemed to have ended up smashed into her hair. Yukine then looked at Yato. Even though his head was obscured by the smoke near the ceiling, he appeared to have suffered a similar fate.

Yukine took a deep breath through his nose. "What," he said slowly. "Happened."

It was less a horrified question, more a dire threat.

Yato's eyes went wide. He pointed an accusatory finger at Hiyori, who paled underneath the layers of frosting. Yukine raised an eyebrow at her.

"He…started it?" she said sheepishly.

Yukine bestowed upon her a look of disappointment, then shook his head.

"This,"—he indicated the disaster zone of the kitchen with a sweeping gesture—"Better be cleaned up the next time I walk in. Or else."

Yato gulped, then nodded rapidly. Hiyori immediately set to work prying a burnt cupcake out of the tray.

But only a few seconds after Yukine had turned and exited the scene of destruction, he heard a burst of giggles coming from the two in the kitchen. The laughter was followed by a dry, flat _thump_ that sounded suspiciously like a thrown burnt cupcake, narrowly missing its mark. He rolled his eyes.

"Children," he sighed.


	27. worry

**a request on tumblr from Anonymous**

* * *

"Make sure you bundle up before going out in this weather!"

Yato materializes in front of Yukine as he's heading out the door, bearing an armload: coat, hat, scarf, mittens, and earmuffs. Yukine looks dubiously out the window at the brown, wintry grass and barren trees.

"Hmm," he says.

Yato drapes the scarf around Yukine's shoulders and smashes the hat onto his head so his hair sticks out in wild tufts from beneath it.

"We don't want you"—he claps the earmuffs over Yukine's ears—"catching anything"—pushing the mittens into his hands—"before Christmas!"—throwing the whole coat around Yukine's body and buttoning it right up over his arms. Yato yanks the scarf out of the front of the coat and winds it once, twice, three times around Yukine's neck until all that pokes out of the top are his eyes, and even those are nearly hidden by the wayward fringe of hair poking from underneath his hat.

"But I'm dead," Yukine says, his voice muffled from beneath the scarf.

"You can still get a cold, can't you?" Yato asks, half-accusingly. Yukine fights an arm free of the coat, and tugs the scarf down over his nose and mouth with one finger.

"I can get _cold_ ," he says patiently. "But I'm pretty sure I can't get _a_ col—"

"Yukine! Yato!" Hiyori bursts in the door, cheeks pinked by the cold and her eyes bright with news.

"It's snowing!"

The three of them turn to look out the frost-edged window. It takes Yukine a moment, but he finally sees what she's talking about. The "snow" is just a few tiny white freckles floating down from the sullen sky, but in a few seconds, the first of the flakes stick. The ground begins to turn patchy, the heads of dead grass poking up from the thin, thin layer of white.

"Let's go!" Hiyori says, stuffing her hands back into her mittens and nearly hopping with excitement.

Yato looks out the window, then at Hiyori, then at Yukine.

"You have to keep your coat on, okay?" he says. Out of the corner of his vision, Yukine sees Hiyori's eyes widen slightly.

He can't blame her. It would shock anyone to see Yato acting like a responsible adult.

"I'll keep the coat," he says. "But not the muffs."

Yato purses his lips. "Fine," he concedes. "But the hat and mittens stay. So does the scarf."

Yukine unsnaps the earmuffs with relief. Those really make his ears sweat. "Deal," he says, throwing the muffs at Yato, who catches them easily. Then he gives Yukine a big, beaming grin.

Yukine notices with some alarm that there is moisture at the corners of his eyes.

"Look at my kid," Yato says, half-crying. "All bundled up and— _*sob*_ —listening to me!"

With no warning, he attacks Yukine with a bear hug, his arms wrapping completely around his body and nearly picking him right up off the ground. " _Urk!_ " Yukine wheezes as his ribs are compressed. Yato sets him down again, then tousles his head with an enthusiasm that puts his hat askew over one ear.

"Cut it out!" he pleads. Yato steps back, still smiling idiotically. Yukine looks to Hiyori for support, but this display of affection has put her in such a state of starry adoration that he knows he can expect no help from her.

"Can we _please_ just…?" He gestures to the rapidly piling snow outside the window, directing attention away from himself.

Yato gasps, then looks at Hiyori, his face wearing an expression of fragile hope. "Maybe we'll see…Santa?"

When she answers, her eyes shift from Yato to the wall behind him. "Yeah!" she says, her voice strained. "M-maybe we will."

Yukine hides a snicker behind his mittens.

Yato and Hiyori dash out into the snow, which is coming down with increasing speed. Yukine lags behind them, fixing his hat. Though a gust of brisk, snow-bitten air rushes through the open door, he has never felt this warm.

It is a curious, new thing to be worried over—to have someone around who fusses about him wearing scarves and mittens, and catching cold, and enjoying Christmas. It is so new, in fact, that Yukine wonders if anyone has ever bothered to care about those things before. And then he comes up sharply against it: the odd, unyielding wall inside him that won't let him look any further.

He has felt his way along this wall before, often at night, when the attic is colder then usual. He doesn't like touching it with his thoughts. It feels wrong to put pressure on it. It feels like another face of darkness.

So now, when he brushes against it, Yukine withdraws quickly: back to the snow, and the happy shouts from outside, and the snugness of the hat around his ears.

Maybe no one has ever worried about him before. Maybe that's because he resists allowing it.

Yukine tightens the too-loose coat around his body, and that's when he realizes the garment is new. So are the mittens. They seem to have been already gently worn, but they are still warm and well-made.

He thinks about a small stack of preciously guarded yen coins finding their way onto a thrift store counter, and a few items of winterwear going mysteriously missing from the shop's hangers. He feels a prickle in his throat, and in the back of his eyes.

Yukine walks outside, shutting the door carefully behind him. The sky is thick and cloudy, dumping snow by the ton. Across the yard, Hiyori has collapsed into the powder, rapturously making a snow angel. Near her, Yato stealthily scoops snow into his hands and begins packing it into a ball. With his throat and eyes still prickling, Yukine realizes that the bitter wind doesn't reach him.

Maybe this part, at least, is true: that no one has ever worried about him before.

And maybe, now that someone is, he's enjoying it.

Just a little.


End file.
